Authors: Anita Nair

Tags: #Bangalore (India), #Widows, #Contemporary Women, #Domestic fiction, #General, #College teachers, #Fiction, #Cultural Heritage

The Lilac House (11 page)

BOOK: The Lilac House

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And the inevitable happened, Jak presumes. He feels sorry for the boy. ‘One of the others stole her away,’ he says. ‘Is that how it happened?’

The boy shakes his head. ‘Yes and no!’ A note of resignation has entered his telling.

Two weeks later Shivu felt a fist slam into his belly when Rupa called him with news of a sighting. Had they broken up, Smriti and he, she wanted to know. Mathew and Smriti looked very cosy together. ‘What are you guys up to with that girl? Playing passing the parcel?’

Shivu wanted to go to Mathew’s room and haul him out. Smash his face in and kick him in his belly. That was how angry he was. But he let it rest. What was he thinking of, he asked himself, appalled at the beast that he was turning into. Mathew was his friend and Smriti was his girl. How could he doubt them? Rupa was a jealous bitch out to make trouble. There was perhaps an innocent explanation.

Then came news of more sightings. A casual remark. A tossed aside. It occurred to Shivu that the world had nothing to do but keep an eye on Mathew and Smriti.

Shivu didn’t know if it was jealousy that rankled. Or his pride that was hurt – the thought of people seeing them together left a sour taste in his mouth. They are going to think I am a wimp if I let
it go on, Shivu told himself the day he decided to confront them. He was afraid, though. He feared his nebulous hold over Smriti and he knew he would lose her if he brought up the gossip.

Mathew was different. Mathew was from here. He ought to know better, Shivu told himself as he pushed open Mathew’s door. They used to share a room once. Not any more. Shivu felt his eyes search the room and his glance pounced on a scarf he recognized as hers.

‘Isn’t this Smriti’s?’ he demanded.

Mathew shrugged. Shivu didn’t know what to say. The shrug was a gauntlet. All’s fair in love and war.

In desperation, Shivu turned on Smriti.

Smriti was furious. ‘You are not my boyfriend. You are my friend. Why do you have to be like all the Indian boys I meet? Can’t we just be friends? You, Mathew, Rishi and I. I’ve been out with Rishi too. So what?’

Shivu poked a straw into his glass. The ice cubes at the bottom rattled. He felt like a fool. He had probably read too much into what Smriti and he shared. On the heels of that came a sense of disquiet. Mathew was not going to like the idea of Rishi and Smriti going out together.

‘You better tell Mathew that you’ve been out with Rishi,’ Shivu told her. ‘Mathew is very possessive. He doesn’t like sharing what is his.’

‘I am not his or anyone else’s,’ she said, dismissing him and his sense of unease.

‘Mathew was a jealous sort, was he?’ Jak probes.

‘Mathew was one of the most generous people I knew. But he was possessive about the people he loved. At first when Rishi and I became friends, he couldn’t bear the thought that I had another close friend. He saw Rishi as an intruder. Eventually, when he saw
that nothing had changed between us, he eased up. But I knew he would be furious when he found out about Smriti and Rishi.’

Jak rests his head on his arm. Could Smriti really have been as clueless as she seemed to be? Didn’t she realize she was toying with these boys? Or did she enjoy the power it gave her? Children of divorced parents are supposed to be needy. Did she need the security of knowing these three young men were smitten by her?

Jak stands up and stretches. Where is this story leading?

As long as Smriti’s last days are veiled in mystery, Jak is going to put his own life on hold. It isn’t that he wants to. But his mind will not obey. His mail box had spewed fifty-six messages that morning. He let his eyes slide over them without a flicker of interest. Some had to do with the book he was researching. One was from the journal he was supposed to submit a paper to. Two invitations to a weather conference, two more to lecture in Waikiki and Brisbane. All of them necessitated his attention and action.

In the end Jak decides on one thing. He will hire someone to deal with all of this, till such time as he manages to shrug his apathy off. He will write to Sheela. She will be able to find him a research assistant.

Outside, the afternoon has settled into dusk. How long must I court this boy? Am I Scheherazade or am I the Caliph? Was there any real difference between them anyway? They were both putting off the inevitable.

So that neither of them would have to decide what to do next.

W
hat comes next in Meera’s life is a mail from Sheela. Meera is surprised. The PR woman and she barely know each other. Randhir dealt with her directly when he hired her for all the promotional
work for Meera’s books. Meera had to just sit through the interviews and photo shoots of her home while Sheela bustled in the background, making countless calls and mapping appointments on her Blackberry. All Meera had to do was reinforce the image of the corporate wife with a single tiger lily in a tall vase and plumped up silk cushions, and offer tea from a tray. Sheela was pleased at how well it all went and so Meera became part of her list.

There haven’t been as many invitations to PR events of late. Perhaps Sheela has heard of her fall from grace. But here she is, inviting her to a flower arrangement book launch and – ‘by the way, would you know of someone who could be a research assistant? A friend of mine, a college professor here on a sabbatical from the US, needs one. He’s quite desperate and will pay well and it will be flexi hours. This is his email id.’

Meera ignores the invitation and dashes a mail off right away with her telephone number. The subtitling editor’s job has been offered to her. She is to start next week. But what if this is a better option, she tells herself. What if it is something that she would feel less undignified about doing?

On the phone his voice is deep and gravelly. An elderly voice thickened with age and much smoking, she presumes.

‘Hello, may I speak with Meera Giridhar?’ it asks, a polite, carefully modulated voice.

Meera says, ‘Yes, this is Meera.’

‘Hello, Meera, how are you? This is Professor Krishnamurthy speaking. I received your mail this morning and thought that I would like to chat a bit.’ The voice pauses. ‘Get to know if you would be interested in working for me.

‘I like your qualifications and the fact that you live in this part of Bangalore helps. We can work the hours around to suit us both without worrying too much about commuting time. But we need to meet so we know we are compatible. Very essential for people who have to work closely,’ he adds.

And so a date and time is fixed.

Later that evening Meera discusses it over dinner.

‘Do you really have to do this?’ Lily asks, spooning her soup noisily.

‘Mama, please,’ Saro interrupts. ‘Meera knows what she is doing.’

Meera throws her mother a grateful look. This is a mother she no longer recognizes. The imperiousness has been replaced by protectiveness. When the children or Lily are difficult, it is Saro who rushes to rescue Meera.

‘But it’s a secretary’s job! How could you?’ Lily demands.

‘What’s wrong with that?’ Saro retorts. ‘Besides, she is going to work for an academic. Professor Krishnamurthy. Meera says he has traces of an American accent. Meera, you must have him over for a drink sometime. Let him meet your family and see for himself that you are from a privileged background and it is just special circumstances…’

‘Mummy, stop.’ It is Meera’s turn to halt the conversation. ‘I don’t have the job yet. Besides, he sounds like a very elderly man lost in his books. Not the kind who would care who or what I am as long as I function effectively.’

‘How old do you think he is?’ Lily asks suddenly.

Meera shakes her head. ‘I don’t know. Maybe your age. Maybe Mummy’s age. I really can’t tell.’

‘Maybe he is your age,’ Nikhil says suddenly.

Meera frowns. ‘Highly unlikely, but we’ll see!’

‘What will you have to do?’ Nikhil rolls his egg into his chapatti.

‘I am not sure yet. Research whatever he wants me to. Type letters, etc., I presume.’ Meera watches Nikhil eat with a frown. ‘Won’t you have some of the salad?’

Nikhil picks up a lone stick of carrot as if it were a dead cockroach.

‘What will you wear, Meera?’ Lily looks up.

‘A sari,’ Meera says. Her mother nods in approval.

‘A smart cotton sari, and you can have my pearls. Look elegant always, that’s half the battle won!’

Nikhil drinks up his milk, mumbling, ‘Why don’t you wear cargo pants and boots if it’s a battle?’ He grins at their horrified expressions and says, ‘Why can’t you dress like you always do?’

The three women turn on him in unison: ‘You don’t understand these things!’

Then she sees him. Striding towards her with a long-legged gait. Meera feels her heart sink. She knows the man. He is the one who dropped her and Nikhil home that afternoon. And now he would recognize her, too, and would want to know about her runaway husband. Meera swallows.

He comes to stand before her and in his eyes is a flare of recognition. ‘Meera?’ he asks. ‘Meera, right?’

‘Hello.’ She smiles. Meera looks past him towards the door. She can’t remember his name or anything about him. Right now, she wishes he would just leave.

‘What a surprise. How are you, Meera?’ He continues to stand there after they have finished exchanging pleasantries.

‘So…’ he says. ‘Are you meeting someone too? I am here to interview a lady for a position as my research assistant. Tell you what, Meera. If you have a moment to spare, why don’t you join us? I would like an opinion. I haven’t done anything like this before, in India.’

And Meera suddenly realizes that he is the elderly gent, the Professor Krishnamurthy she is waiting for.

‘Professor Krishnamurthy, I think I am the one you are here to interview,’ she says quietly.

He straightens abruptly. ‘Oh! Meera Giridhar. Very silly of me not to have recognized your name. So, shall I sit down?’ he says, pulling out a chair.

‘This is a surprise but I am glad it’s you, Meera. Really glad. But
what about your cookbook writing? That can’t be easy. I know it’s very hard work. And to take this up… Will you have the time?’

Meera stretches her lips in a parody of a smile. ‘I am actually between books.’

‘Great!’ he murmurs, leaning back.

I must say this for him. The man is circumspect, Meera tells herself. He hasn’t asked me about Giri yet. Most people would have.

M
ost people would wonder at this man who sits before her. Lily and Saro wouldn’t approve; the children would. And Giri? He would dismiss him as a no-good poseur. But Giri isn’t here. So she will watch and wait.

Meera studies him carefully as he talks into the phone. She rather likes what she sees. He is not Giri with his carefully brushed hair, Mont Blanc pen in his breast pocket and gleaming brogues; the Rolex Oyster and pin stripes for workdays and studied casuals for weekends. Giri was always living up to an image of himself and he wanted her to do the same. It is a relief that he is nothing like Giri, this big man with his firm stubbled jaw and twinkling eyes behind narrow spectacle frames in a bright shade of blue. She sees the bracelets on his forearm, the gold amulet strung around his neck on a leather thong and the diamond ear stud.

She can’t see him in a suit, hemmed behind a table laden with corporate-alia. Nor can she see him in a classroom. What does he do, this Professor Krishnamurthy?

She teases the image of him this way and that. A smile escapes her.

She feels his eyes on her as she pretends to toy with the mutton cutlet he insisted on ordering, saying, ‘Sheela recommended it highly and I want to try it now that we are here.’

Meera smiles and says, ‘She is right. It is rather delicious.’

She is hungry and has to control herself from eating it all up in one gulp. And then a little thought on mice feet scuttles through her mind. What does he see when he scrutinizes her?

What do I see when I look at myself? Meera peers at the face in the glass pane. She has always seen herself with other people’s eyes. Lily’s serious granddaughter. Saro’s fussy daughter. Giri’s elegant wife. Nikhil and Nayantara’s dependable mother.

What does he see? A silly cookbook writer. A pathetic, abandoned wife. A desperate, no skills employee.

She looks around Koshy’s. She sees a woman she recognizes and smiles at her. The woman throws a languid wave at her. She must be wondering about Professor Krishnamurthy, Meera tells herself, matching indolence with a careless toss of her wrist as acknowledgement of the wave. ‘Hi. Hi. Now get the fuck out of my face!’ Meera grimaces.

He snaps shut the phone and says softly, ‘It doesn’t matter if you haven’t done this kind of thing before. You will learn as you go along. All I ask is that you keep an open mind and make a sincere effort. The rest will follow naturally. I really would be very happy if you could take it up.’

Meera’s eyes widen. No small talk. No checking up on qualifications or credentials. Is he always as impetuous as this? Her eyes widen some more when he mentions the terms.

The wolves will stop baying at her door. For three months at least. That is the trial period he mentions.

Meera wonders at the state of the car. How can anyone have such a messy car? He drives well and expertly. Giri is a good driver, too, but he prefers to sit in the back and have the driver deal with the traffic, the bad roads, the beggar children and eunuchs at the intersection, while he reads the
Economic Times
. He doesn’t want to be bothered. Professor Krishnamurthy, it occurs to her, can’t
be bothered either. But in a different way. Perhaps I ought to first clean his car for him, she tells herself and then catches the thought in time. What am I thinking? I am his research assistant, not his wife.

‘I thought I’d show you where my house is before I drive you home. It’s not too far from yours. Just a couple of streets away,’ he says, turning into Wheeler Road at Thom’s Café junction.

The breeze blows Meera’s hair into her face. ‘Have you always lived in Bangalore?’ she asks, filling yet another silence between them.

‘Grew up in Madras. Then the US. I’ve been in Bangalore for about eight months now. I am still finding my way around.’

‘So how come you chose Bangalore? Are you in the IT industry? This is ridiculous, I know Professor, but I haven’t even asked you what I am to help research.’

He smiles. ‘I know. We both seem to be novices at this. And no, I have nothing to do with the IT world. I am a weather expert; a cyclone specialist, to be specific. I am working on a book on cyclones. There is a lot of data to wade through, a lot of information to source and collate, and I need help. Which is where you come in.

‘As for Bangalore, my wife made me buy this house some years ago. And my daughter chose to go to college here. So when I needed to be in India, it seemed perfect!’

Wife. There is a woman in the house. Meera is nervous. A little. He seems eminently respectable but there is no telling. A wife makes everything so much easier.

‘Ex-wife, I should say. We have been divorced for a while now.’

Meera’s heart sinks. Oh no! What is she getting into?

‘But it is a full household! You will see! I have had to carve out a work space for myself…’ His voice trails away and Meera wonders at the composite of bitterness and sorrow that underlines his voice.

It is a nondescript house on Graham Road. Rectangular and low, it echoes the aspirations of a time when people weary of worrying about rafters and tiles switched to concrete roofs. A flat roof where you could lay things out to dry and even string a clothesline if necessary. There is a circular driveway from the gate and the porch stands at its apex. To the left of the house, away from the building, is the garage, abutting the corner. A late sixties’ style, low bungalow shorn of the steep gables and monkey tops of her own house. Less pretty, but so much easier to keep clean. Meera thinks with a shudder of her monthly foray with a long-handled cobweb duster.

‘Nina wanted an old bungalow. One of those real Bangalore houses. But I thought it would be too much trouble. I am glad that we chose this house. It’s not pretty but it’s functional,’ he says, stopping the car in the porch.

Meera says nothing. Does he read minds? She looks at him sidelong.

She runs a quick eye over the garden. A giant old avocado tree stands to a side, casting dense green shadow and spangles of light onto the side of the house. Bougainvillea trail over the porch roof, the gnarled old stem climbing the porch pillars. At the farther corner is a patch of wilderness. Heliconia droop flowers amidst a pool of ferns. A stunted frangipani stands in the middle of what was once a lawn. The crazy paving is broken in parts but here and there where the sun thrusts its way in, geraniums flourish. Pink, red and white blossoms standing tall and healthy.

Someone is making an effort, or wanting to. A row of terracotta pots wait beneath the avocado tree, and a small cluster of plants in plastic bags.

‘I hope to do some work on the garden when I can.’ He shrugs.

Again. He is doing it again, Meera thinks. Is he one of those people with a sixth sense or whatever?

Meera gathers her sari pallu around her.

The house is quiet. Meera hesitates at the door. She watches him slide his key in. Didn’t he say there were other people in the house? What is she thinking of? Walking into the house of a strange man.

He opens the door and steps in. ‘Kala Chithi,’ he calls softly.

Meera exhales. There are other people here. Why didn’t he ring the bell then?

An elderly lady in a grey sari emerges from an inner room. Meera tries not to stare at the woman’s head, the grey stubble that is the grey of her sari.

‘This is my aunt,’ he says softly. ‘This is Meera,’ he says, turning to the elderly lady. ‘She’s going to work for me.’ He speaks in Tamil.

The elderly lady folds her hands in a namaste. Meera does the same. Then she says in her best Tamil, ‘I live just two streets away. On Bailey Road, next to D’Costa Square.’

He raises an eyebrow at her. ‘Tamil, too! So no secrets in this house, I see!’

Meera smiles. ‘I grew up in Ooty,’ she offers in explanation.

‘Sit down, I’ll bring some coffee,’ the elderly lady says.

‘Is it just the two of you who live here?’ Meera asks. The room is tidy but spartan, the newspaper neatly arranged on a glass coffee table, cushions stacked on the cane sofas. The TV in its corner. Coasters on side tables.

He looks away. ‘No, my daughter is here too. That’s why I chose to live in Bangalore. Because of my daughter.’ He pauses and begins again, ‘I met your son. Is he your only child?’

Meera smiles. ‘No, I have a daughter. Nayantara. She is nineteen and is at IIT Chennai.’

‘Must be a brilliant girl! You must be proud of her.’

Meera feels a queer sadness wash over her. I must be proud of my daughter, you say. I am. Nayantara. The star of my eye.

But I have also been wounded by her. That is the thing about daughters, you see. Their mothers have to bear the brunt of it all.

Tell me, how old is your daughter? Like mine, did she choose you rather than her mother when it came to aligning herself? Where is this girl child of yours who has appointed herself your confidante, ally and daddy’s best friend?

‘Smriti. She is nineteen, too.’ He rises abruptly. ‘Come, we might as well get this over with,’ he says, breaking into her thoughts.

And so Meera sees Smriti.

Meera stands at the door trying to assimilate all that lies before her in the room. From the window, a filtered green light of sun trapped through leaves. In the dark corners, an underwater green cast by the constantly moving image of the sea. On the wall opposite the bed, a projector beams a continuous roll of waves. Speakers echo their rise and flop; the sound of water again and again.

A few shelves hold books. The rest of the room is crammed with dolls of every material, organic and man-made; precious and ordinary.

But it is the girl on the bed who causes Meera to grip her bag even more tightly. Her eyes crinkle. Is that a girl? She hasn’t seen anything like this creature. Not even in her disaster documentaries. A wave of revulsion washes over her.

It lies poleaxed. Legs separate and hands flung wide apart. Swathed in a blouse and pyjamas of fine cotton, its hair razed to a stubble. Thin as paper and almost as pale, the skin stretched across the bones, causing the cheeks to hollow inwards. The eyes wide open, cast of glass. The mouth askew. A face stricken in a permanent leer. Something about the hardness of the stare and the grim mouth gives it an evil cunning.

I am watching you.

Meera knows fear. What monstrous creature is this?

‘Meera, this is my daughter, Smriti. Nineteen, that’s how old
she is. And condemned for life to be this monster who causes you to flinch each time you look at her,’ Jak says.

Meera is ashamed. She raises her eyes and meets his gaze.

‘Nina and I couldn’t at first forget home. We lived in the States. Our bodies did, that is. But our minds sought the India we had left behind. That was what brought us together. Bound us. And so, when she was born, we decided to name her Smriti. What was remembered. Now that is all there is to her.’

He is slowly unclenching its fists. ‘In a little while, her fingers will curl inwards again. We do this every hour so that she doesn’t lose the mobility of her fingers.’

One by one he straightens each finger, smoothening the stiffness out, rubbing gently. He squeezes hand lotion from a tube and rubs it in. Meera swallows, the leap of saliva in her throat absurdly loud.

She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t know how to respond. With comfort or curiosity.

Meera walks home. ‘It’s just a few minutes away,’ she says, closing the door behind her. As she turns the corner, she can’t stop the question in her head. How does he bear it? How can he see her like this and be sane?

‘What happened?’ she had asked. ‘How did she…?’ Her words trailed off.

He put down the hand lotion and wiped his fingers. ‘I don’t know. There are so many versions. The doctor’s version. The police version. All I know is, she went on a trip with some friends of hers. And there was a freak accident, so they say.’

Meera let her fingers slide towards the creature’s. As she slowly straightened the curling fingers, it felt strangely as it used to when she slid her fingers into Nayantara’s when she was a baby. They were warm, fragile, and bereft of a will of their own.

‘Nayantara,’ Meera says urgently into the phone.

‘Hi Mom,’ a tinny voice trills in her ear. ‘How did the interview go?’

‘It was fine. I got the job,’ Meera says. ‘His name is Professor Krishnamurthy.’

Meera rambles. Anything to keep Nayantara on the other end. Anything for a few moments of reprieve. Of knowing that as long as her child is talking to her, she is safe.

‘Mom, I have to go,’ Nayantara breaks in.

‘Yes, yes. Nayantara, baby, you will be careful, won’t you?’

BOOK: The Lilac House

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Read Book Download Book

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